having seen that knowledge in her face—the fear created by her own helplessness—how small she had been in comparison to Boland—
Anger ripped through him. His fists felt now like meteors, swift and dense, afire. An uppercut knocked the Irishman back. "Hit me," he screamed. Four jabs took the man to his knees. "Is that all you have? Stand up, goddamn you!" Spittle, blood—the warmth of it dripping down his face did not faze him. He barely felt it. His skin had gone numb. One small aim realized.
Fingers hooked under his arms, clawed into his shirt. He was dragged up, off bended knee, away from his opponent.
The interior of the public house was thick and hot. The Irishman lay in a heap on the ground. James lifted his head to watch the smoke spiral upward in lazy blue plumes, joining the mass that roiled beneath the timbers. Old building, this. Here and there a pewter pint glass clinked against wood, or a customer whispered for a six of gin; but the crowd was largely silent. James drew a breath.
"Erin go bragh," he said, and let out a gusty laugh.
"Jesus, James."
He glanced up. A form was paused on the stairs, his features obscured by the light streaming in from behind him. But the low, smooth voice was unmistakable. At university, when very drunk, Phin had liked to sing. In the interim, he'd found other callings for it. Two years ago, during one of his brief stays in town, they'd met for a drink. Phin had been on the edge of what doctors would later diagnose as a malarial relapse, though he hadn't realized it at the time. A few whiskeys into the conversation, he'd said, out of nowhere, I am a crack hand at interrogation: you would not believe the power of a warm voice speaking to you through the dark.
It had been James's first inkling of the places to which "cartography" had led his friend. I'II keep the lights on, he'd replied. "Kind of you to drop by," he said now.
His remark broke the spell of silence. At once, voices babbled up from every direction—victors crowing for their wagers, erstwhile adherents of the Irishman cursing his name. From the corner of his eye, James saw someone deliver the downed man a kick in the ribs.
"Julking time!" yelled the proprietor. He wresded his way through the now-milling crowd, two steaming glasses of gin in his hands. James took them gratefully. They reeked more sharply than turpentine, but went down like water.
Phin fought through the mob. "Bloody well done," he said. "Literally. You look as if someone took a mallet to you."
A throb was setting up in James's jaw. He poked his tongue back. The inside of his cheek was torn, but all his teeth seemed intact. He'd live to be pretty another day. "You wish to nurse me to health?"
"Beyond my capabilities. It's your brain that's broken, I believe."
James would have lifted a brow, but the attempt made him wince. "Don't be tiring. If I need lectures, I'll visit Moreland."
"You're lisping."
"Am I? I know just the cure for it." He waved to the proprietor. At the counter, the bird fanciers were lining up their wicker cages. Best to get in his next order before the match started. "Another glass of your best rotgut, sir. Phin, will you join? The birds tonight looked very promising. I spy a German canary in that lot."
"No, thank you. I prefer my liquor cold."
"Right. Or in a pipe, I suppose."
Phin's brow lifted. "What a clumsy way to drink liquor. Are you sure you're not concussed?"
"If not to drink or to fight, why are you here?"
"To ask for your help. But I see you're determined to be useless for the evening."
"No surprise there," James said mildly. "Although I have just finished laying out the pride of Ireland. Some would call that a national victory." It dawned on him that Phin was in full evening dress. "Coming from somewhere?"
"The Stromonds'."
Ah, yes, the annual ball. Every matchmaking mamas most prized invitation. "My condolences," he said. "They must be on you like flies to honey." He rolled his head, feeling the
Anger ripped through him. His fists felt now like meteors, swift and dense, afire. An uppercut knocked the Irishman back. "Hit me," he screamed. Four jabs took the man to his knees. "Is that all you have? Stand up, goddamn you!" Spittle, blood—the warmth of it dripping down his face did not faze him. He barely felt it. His skin had gone numb. One small aim realized.
Fingers hooked under his arms, clawed into his shirt. He was dragged up, off bended knee, away from his opponent.
The interior of the public house was thick and hot. The Irishman lay in a heap on the ground. James lifted his head to watch the smoke spiral upward in lazy blue plumes, joining the mass that roiled beneath the timbers. Old building, this. Here and there a pewter pint glass clinked against wood, or a customer whispered for a six of gin; but the crowd was largely silent. James drew a breath.
"Erin go bragh," he said, and let out a gusty laugh.
"Jesus, James."
He glanced up. A form was paused on the stairs, his features obscured by the light streaming in from behind him. But the low, smooth voice was unmistakable. At university, when very drunk, Phin had liked to sing. In the interim, he'd found other callings for it. Two years ago, during one of his brief stays in town, they'd met for a drink. Phin had been on the edge of what doctors would later diagnose as a malarial relapse, though he hadn't realized it at the time. A few whiskeys into the conversation, he'd said, out of nowhere, I am a crack hand at interrogation: you would not believe the power of a warm voice speaking to you through the dark.
It had been James's first inkling of the places to which "cartography" had led his friend. I'II keep the lights on, he'd replied. "Kind of you to drop by," he said now.
His remark broke the spell of silence. At once, voices babbled up from every direction—victors crowing for their wagers, erstwhile adherents of the Irishman cursing his name. From the corner of his eye, James saw someone deliver the downed man a kick in the ribs.
"Julking time!" yelled the proprietor. He wresded his way through the now-milling crowd, two steaming glasses of gin in his hands. James took them gratefully. They reeked more sharply than turpentine, but went down like water.
Phin fought through the mob. "Bloody well done," he said. "Literally. You look as if someone took a mallet to you."
A throb was setting up in James's jaw. He poked his tongue back. The inside of his cheek was torn, but all his teeth seemed intact. He'd live to be pretty another day. "You wish to nurse me to health?"
"Beyond my capabilities. It's your brain that's broken, I believe."
James would have lifted a brow, but the attempt made him wince. "Don't be tiring. If I need lectures, I'll visit Moreland."
"You're lisping."
"Am I? I know just the cure for it." He waved to the proprietor. At the counter, the bird fanciers were lining up their wicker cages. Best to get in his next order before the match started. "Another glass of your best rotgut, sir. Phin, will you join? The birds tonight looked very promising. I spy a German canary in that lot."
"No, thank you. I prefer my liquor cold."
"Right. Or in a pipe, I suppose."
Phin's brow lifted. "What a clumsy way to drink liquor. Are you sure you're not concussed?"
"If not to drink or to fight, why are you here?"
"To ask for your help. But I see you're determined to be useless for the evening."
"No surprise there," James said mildly. "Although I have just finished laying out the pride of Ireland. Some would call that a national victory." It dawned on him that Phin was in full evening dress. "Coming from somewhere?"
"The Stromonds'."
Ah, yes, the annual ball. Every matchmaking mamas most prized invitation. "My condolences," he said. "They must be on you like flies to honey." He rolled his head, feeling the
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